The Illusion of Control
by starrysummernights
Summary: It amazes Sherlock that anyone would ever believe him to be in control when it comes to his relationship with John. Omegaverse. Omega!John, Alpha!Sherlock.


**The idea for this one-shot came from a conversation I had a few months ago with a writer on here who said she didn't like reading omega!John with alpha!Sherlock because Sherlock was always very possessive of his mate. Overly so to the point that it was borderline abusive relationship. I agreed with her at the time, but lately I've changed my mind- John wouldn't take Sherlock's possessiveness lying down. Hence, this story.**

**Please note: This is filthy Omegaverse Johnlock. There's knotting and possessive Sherlock and Captain John Watson being dominant even though he's an Omega and if any of that turns you off, you may want to stop reading now. Otherwise, enjoy :)**

* * *

It amazes Sherlock that anyone would ever believe _him_ to be in control when it comes to his relationship with John.

It's antiquated thinking, he knows. It's because John's an Omega, Sherlock an Alpha, and the two are in a bonded relationship. Put it all together (wrongly- people always put it together _wrongly_) and everyone assumes Sherlock is John's Alpha, his superior. The dominant one. The one staunchly in control. They imagine, probably in lurid, perverted detail, that when John goes into heat, he's gagging for it. That he lays down and spreads his legs for Sherlock and prettily begs for Sherlock's big, strong Alpha cock in his arse. That John comes all over himself when Sherlock knots him and nuzzles against Sherlock in the afterglow while they're still joined for kisses and reassuring cuddles. They imagine the three days of John's estrus as a no-holds-barred fuck-fest in which Sherlock is in charge, knotting John all over the flat whenever he wants and John bloody _loves_ every second of it.

John may be an Omega- _his_ Omega, Sherlock's currently lizard brain bellows- but for all the scholarly written works on the fragileness of Omegas, their perceived weakness, how they crave protection, Alpha versus Omega control, and all that rubbish…Sherlock, for all that he is an Alpha, never even had a chance when it came to John.

John's current heat is a perfect example.

They're in Sherlock's bedroom, the mattress squeaking tellingly with every shivery grind of their bodies together. John is vigorously riding Sherlock, breath coming in short, shallow pants, head thrown back and eyes closed in acute pleasure. His cock, lovely and flushed pink, bounces with every jolt as he seats himself atop Sherlock's cock, harder and faster with every passing second as his heat-induced need spirals higher and higher.

Sherlock lays passively beneath him, body slick with sweat, muscles jumping with the repressed need to move, to be doing _something_. He shudders when he feels the viscous wetness from John's arse, pushed out by their enthusiastic fucking, trickle down his testicles, slicking between his upper thighs. Sherlock whines, high in his throat, at the tantalizing feeling and his hips judder upward, greedily pushing himself into the moist slickness of John's body-

"_Don't move_." John growls, teeth bared, fingernails digging into Sherlock's chest in warning, and Sherlock goes immediately still. Passive. Docile. He's not in control of this situation. He knows he's not. His Omega is.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

John smells _wonderful_, the first wave of his heat making his scent- always pleasing- positively mouth-watering. Sherlock wants him. In this moment, with John moving above him, flushed and out of breath, his body glistening from exertion, his cock leaking onto Sherlock's stomach, Sherlock thinks John is the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen. He always thinks that but this…this is so much…_more_. He would do anything for John. Absolutely anything.

Sherlock breaths in deeply through his mouth, gasping, wanting to taste how John smells on his tongue, desperate for the tiniest vestiges of his mate. Later, he hopes John will let Sherlock lick him. He wants to run his tongue over every inch of John's body, until John smells nothing like himself and everything like Sherlock. It's something Sherlock would do as a ritual every morning before John left for work- if John would let him. John never lets him, though. He only allows Sherlock the barest of scentings, rubbing himself against John and leaving the smallest traces of himelf on John's body…before John tugs out of Sherlock's clutching grasp and leaves for the day. It's frustratingly _not enough_. For Sherlock, at least. He wants John to smell like him all the time, so everyone he comes in contact with will know who he belongs to, that he belongs to someone and is decidedly off limits.

A perfect glide onto Sherlock's cock, John's body writhing in the most distracting of ways, makes Sherlock see stars, his spine arching. Pleasure shoots through his body, desire cresting and making his staunch self-control come dangerously close to shattering. He twists on the bed, his cock hard and aching in John's body but making no move to alleviate his arousal.

Sherlock loves the way John- his loyal, strong Omega- looks riding him, freely taking his pleasure from Sherlock's cock. Sherlock longs to thrust up into him, to reverse their positions and pound into John until they're both shouting and coming. He wants to bend John over, onto his hands and knees, and fuck him, bite over John's faded bond bite, ravage it with his teeth, make it bleed anew and scar into something much more vivd and noticeable. Sherlock hates the conservative button-downs John always wear. The collars are high and hide his bond bite. No one can see it. Sherlock hates that. He wants everyone to be able to see the tangible reminder that John is _his_.

Sherlock bites his lip and clutches at the pillow beneath his head to prevent himself from doing anything John doesn't want him to do. He knows it would make John angry if Sherlock bit him like that, no matter if he enjoys it in the moment or not, and so Sherlock moans, his self-imposed helplessness making his body squirm beneath John. His legs scissor, heels skidding on the mattress, and he moans.

"_Oh…f-fuck…"_ John's head falls forward, his eyes glazed in pleasure, and he brings one of his hands down to tug frantically at his cock. Sherlock groans longingly, fervently wanting to be the one doing that, wanting to knock John's hand away and stroke John's beautiful, lovely cock. He wants to make John come and feel the way his penis throbs and contracts in his hand while he does it. He wants to slick his hand through John's ejaculate and taste it, lick every last trace of it from John's skin and feel pride that he was the one to make John come.

John doesn't want that right now, though. Maybe later. Right now, he's in charge. He's the one who decides what they do and when they do it. Later, he will let Sherlock do what he wants- but it will be at _John's_ whim. At _John's_ request. And always, at the back of his mind, Sherlock will know that John is in control, even if he's on his hands and knees beneath Sherlock and being knotted. Sherlock is John's Alpha. He belongs to John. He utterly and completely loves that idea.

Sherlock can feel his own orgasm looming, the knot at the base of his cock rapidly expanding, and he releases his fistfuls of pillow to grasp at John's hips-

John intercepts his hands and clasps them, interlacing their fingers and firmly pressing Sherlock's hands against the bed near his head. He can't move. He's helpless. At John's mercy.

It's glorious.

"_Ah…ah….ah_!" John's cries are getting more plaintive, his hips working faster atop Sherlock, the deliciously filthy wet squelching of the movements sounding loud in the room. Every Alpha instinct in Sherlock's body is clamoring to take control. His hips weakly thrust up- once, twice- before he stops himself, willfully schooling himself into passivity again.

"_John_- p-please-" His voice sounds strained even to his own ears, and Sherlock would ordinarily feel humiliated to be begging, pleading- he's an Alpha…but this is _John_. This is his Omega. It's only right for him to beg.

"N-not yet, Sherlock. Not yet…almost…just- just wait." John moans, grinding atop Sherlock, his eyes fluttering closed again, unconsciously presenting his neck as he gets closer to orgasm. Sherlock can see his faded bond bite and he unknowingly bares his teeth, wanting to sink his teeth against that place again, feel the delicious way John's skin breaks beneath the onslaught-

"John- John- John…" He chants John's name over and over, like a prayer, and he isn't so far gone that he doesn't see the way John, even in the middle of his heat and desperate to come, smiles at the sound. His lips curling up into a satisfied, cocky grin.

Possessiveness roars through Sherlock's body. No one else can ever see John like this. The fact that others have makes Sherlock almost blind in wild, hot anger. He has the nearly irrepressible urge to bite John everywhere. To mark his flesh at every pulse point. Every limb. His thighs. His stomach. His chest. His back. He wants to mark every part of John's body until no matter where anyone else looks the message would be clear: Back off. He's spoken for. He's _mine_.

Sherlock isn't allowed to do that. He knows better.

He still remembers one of John's heats from a year ago: John had been unusually compliant and submissive, sinking into his heat and relinquishing everything, allowing Sherlock to take charge, offering no resistance and baring his neck to Sherlock in a beautiful, rare show of passivity. Sherlock had taken the initiative (had taken _advantage_, as John would later rage at him) and had given in to the possessive nature of his Alpha side and marked John….everywhere. He'd disregarded John's rules, rules which had been laid down when they first got together and discussed at length, and done exactly as he pleased. Sherlock had bitten John- over and over- sucked bruises onto his skin, and even gone so far as to suck what turned out to be a painful and slow-healing mark onto John's small, Omega cock. At the time, Sherlock had been half-wild, drunk on the scent of John, his uncharacteristic submissiveness, and the pheromones that came with his heat. He'd neither bothered to stop and think or even remotely care about the ramifications of his actions…

The results had been…not good. Sherlock still remembers John's stern, disappointed expression, the gnawing shame over the fact he'd let himself get so carried away, and, more importantly, the heat suppressants John had taken for three months after the incident, refusing to go off them even after Sherlock had promised to never do something like that again.

Sherlock never, ever wants that repeated again. He's learned his lesson.

"Please…John." Sherlock gasps, his orgasm not far away, the frantic grind of John on his cock pushing him closer to completion. "I need….need…"

John's sigh is overwrought, shaky. "T-touch me. Sh-Sherlock, you- you can…"

Weak in relief, Sherlock desperately untangles his hands from John's and, one hand wrapping around John's hard, straining cock, he uses the other to grab John's hip and pull him down onto his cock, as hard as he can, while thrusting upward. Sherlock shoves his knot past the slight resistance, shouting in blessed, magnificent relief as he does so.

He comes almost immediately, the orgasm feeling as if it's being torn from the very depths of his soul, tremors wracking his body as his cock spurts into John over and over. Distantly, he's aware of John shouting, warm wetness covering his hand as his Omega comes and the knowledge feeds into the pleasurable loop Sherlock is caught up in. The rhythmic clenching of John's body around his cock is bliss, pure and simple. He inhales deeply, breathing in the smell of his mate, the scent of his orgasm, and relishes the moment.

John, boneless, slumps forward, the movement tugging at the place where Sherlock is now joined to him but a quick shift of John's hips makes it right again. He buries his face in Sherlock's neck, muscles twitching, breathing in the calming yet invigorating smell of Alpha and sex and sweat.

"Oh, _fuck_." John draws the one syllable word out, sighing, body lax on top of Sherlock. "I love you."

Sherlock winds trembling arms around his domineering, authoritative Omega, heart clenching in his chest at the words. "I love you too." He manages to stumble out, nuzzling against John's sweat damp hair, panting and, feeling daring in the peaceful aftermath, licks at the beads of sweat on John's forehead.

John snorts, raising himself up on an elbow to stare down at Sherlock. "That's disgusting."

"Nothing about you is disgusting." Sherlock replies, straining up to lick more at John's jawline, across his neck, scenting at the bend of his neck and burrowing against his faded bone bite reverently.

"I've been thinking." John starts hesitantly, and Sherlock goes utterly still beneath him. He always loves it when John's been having a think. "I've been thinking… It's been a while since I've let you bite me."

Sherlock swallows heavily, anticipation a heavy, lurching weight in his gut. He doesn't even trust himself to respond. He waits- patiently impatient- for John to continue.

"I know you want to." John's smile is knowing, eyes narrowed shrewdly, too much so for someone in heat but that's why Sherlock loves him so. John's a marvel. "And…I think I'll let you. Just this one time, Sherlock." He adds sternly when he sees the shock and excitement break out on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock can't help thrusting up at the idea, just the tiniest bit, into John, even though he's knotted and therefore stuck and the movement doesn't do a thing. "John-"

"Choose a spot. _One spot_, Sherlock. Just the one. And I'll let you." John leans down, kissing Sherlock but pulling away before they get lost in it. "And not my cock. That one's off limits…permanently."

As if he would ever hurt John's exquisite cock. He hadn't meant to do that the last time… Sherlock clutches at John, heart beating incredibly fast in his chest, unsure if he should give John an out for this gift, worried it's all due to hormones and his heat, or greedily snatch at it with both hands.

"It's ok. I've been thinking about it and I want you to do it. Just this time. Just the one place." John assures him, hissing when Sherlock's knot softens and his cock slips out of John's body. He settles beside Sherlock, draping his body around Sherlock's, keeping the almost-necessary physical contact between them. It will be another hour or so until the next wave of his heat hits and Sherlock knows John will settle in for a nap before that time.

"Your neck." He blurts out, rolling onto his side and cradling John's tired face in his hands. "I want to bite your neck again. Your bond bite." He clarifies, wanting to make sure John knows what he wants so he won't get in trouble over it later.

John chuckles, ruffling his hand through Sherlock's hair. "You hopeless, incredibly possessive romantic, you. I figured that's where it'd be."

"And that's…fine?"

John yawns, nodding. "S'fine. Just don't get blood on the sheets." He adds sleepily, then cracks an eye open. "And go get the first aid kit so you can doctor me afterward. Oh, and a glass of water. I'm parched after all that."

Sherlock obediently does as instructed, leaving John to his nap, excitement thrumming through his body and making him almost giddy. He can't wait until the next round. He can almost _feel_ his teeth sinking into John's skin, leaving a vivid, red scar behind that no one will be able to miss.

The idea makes him shiver.


End file.
